


Five Rules For Fucking Your Best Friend and Your Best Friend's Girlfriend's Father

by Mandibles



Series: Rare Teen Wolf Threesomes [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Am I kicked out of the fandom yet?, Clearly I have all the problems, Double Penetration, For the most part, Just straight up porn, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 21:49:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandibles/pseuds/Mandibles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or,<i> In Which Stiles and Scott DP Chris Argent and I'm Shipped Off to a Mental Institution</i>.</p><p>“Getting laid” is definitely on the Stiles' Friday to do list, a few times even, but nowhere does it mention “Scott” or “Chris Argent” or “Oh my god, my best friend is watching me bang his girlfriend’s dad.” The strangest part of it all is that he <i>agreed</i> to this.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Rules For Fucking Your Best Friend and Your Best Friend's Girlfriend's Father

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, not sorry. Take that as you will.

You know, Stiles can name, like, twenty things he could do on a nice Friday afternoon like this. What he’s doing now, though, is not a single one of them. Not really, at least. See, “getting laid” is definitely on the list, a few times even, but nowhere does it mention “Scott” or “Chris Argent” or “Oh my god, my best friend is watching me bang his girlfriend’s dad.” Sure, his life has taken some really weird turns lately, but this reaches the  _spiraling into the flaming yellow sun_  level of the Totally Fucked-o-meter.

The strangest part of it all is that he  _agreed_  to this.

“What do I get myself into?” he wonders aloud in a low moan to Scott’s sympathetic half-smile and Mr. Argent’s—Chris? Can he call him Chris?—sharp reminder of Rule Number One: keep your mouth shut. Stiles obeys with some difficulty, eases back into the madness. He’s pinned to his bed first by Chris’ solid grasp of his wrists and secondly by Chris’ body, gladly impaled on Stiles’ dick with rocking hips, and thirdly by Scott’s mouth, sucking wetly at his nipple.

And, as terrifying as Chris’ pinched lips and fierce grey eyes are, it’s all so ridiculously  _good_  that Stiles can ignore it. Because he’s tight, you know? Tight and hot and so fucking fantastic it takes everything Stiles has not to squirm, not to thrust up into him like the beast Scott is. Scott who’s mouth slides up Stiles’ throat now and fingers pinching the nipple he neglected before.

For the guy who’s dating Chris’ daughter, Scott’s handling this pretty well, and, damn, that sounds kind of reversed, you know? Stiles is the one getting into shit and dragging Scott kicking and screaming behind him. Who’da thought Scott would be the one to call him, the one to bring sullen and threatening Chris onto his doorstep?

“Come on, dude,” Scott had said with earnest eyes and bright red cheeks. “I just—I dunno. I  just want to help, you know? He’s lost  _everything_.”

Stiles expected ‘helping’ a middle-aged guy to mean mowing his lawn or cleaning his garage or washing his car, not whatever the hell this is. If Scott’s slack face when Chris started unzipping his pants was anything to go by, he thought that too.

Well. Luckily they both have a thing for DILFs with murderous tendencies, huh?

A sudden squeeze, a clench, startles a gasp from Stiles. Without thinking, he manages to sneak a jerky thrust here, balls slapping Chris’ ass wetly, and he laughs victoriously at the choked noise it spurs.

Chris scowls, but grits, “Scott,” tightly through clenched teeth. Scott perks, abandoning Stiles’ chin with a smack and hesitantly obeys when Chris jerks his head and says, “Behind me.”

Oh, so they’re, like, switching off? That’s cool. Stiles makes to pull away but Chris doesn’t budge, doesn’t even acknowledge that he’s trying to move. In fact he lets go of his hands and drops down to his forearms so they’re nose to nose, breath to breath, and he reaches back with a husky whisper of, “Lube up and put it in.”

A beat. “Huh?” Stiles and Scott say in unison.

“You know, uh,” Stiles says, “I kind of need to pull out for that.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yeah, I kinda do, actually.”

Chris shoots him a withering glare. “Rule one,” he reminds and Stiles rolls his eyes, settles back. Chris continues without a beat, glancing behind him, “Scott. You are going to lube yourself up and you’re going to shove your cock in with his.”

Scott’s mussed hair pops into Stiles’ vision, over Chris’ shoulder. “Wait. Wait, you mean like—like—” His voice is high, tight, and Stiles knows he has to take over.

“You want us to DP you,” Stiles breathes with new understanding. Aw man, he can barely imagine it. Chris’ tight enough; the idea of Scott pushing up beside his cock, squeezing them together in that tight space seems impossible. Shit, that’s so—

Scott makes a strangled noise, most likely thinking the same thing. “Are you sure—”

Chris huffs, nods, and Stiles can practically feel his lips, taste his breath they’re so close. He tilts his head up just a bit, hopeful they’ll break rule four—absolutely no kissing—but Chris stays just out of reach.

Stiles swallows thickly. “Do it, Scott.”

“But—”

“Just do it!”

Chris stiffens when a growl rumbles through the air and he snaps his head back sharply. “Rule two.” No wolfing out.

“I’m not, I’m not!” Scott insists with the click of a cap. The bed shifts as he moves into a position Stiles has to crane his head to the side to see. He arranges behind Chris, practically  _mounts_  him like the mutt he is, and Stiles twitches when fingers ghost over his balls, slowly wriggle in beside his cock. All three suck in a breath when the head of Scott’s cock finally butts at the rim, making Chris hole twitch in anticipation around Stiles; all three groan, the sound reverberating around them, when Scott starts to press in.

“Holy—Holy—Fucking Christ—”

“It’s not going to fit. It’s not—It  _can’t_ —”

“Shut up!” Chris hisses against Stiles’ face, blindly clutching at his hair. “Shut up and put it in!”

Ooh, that’s a new side of Allison’s dad; wonder if she knows about it. Stiles can’t stop his giggle. “Cockslut—ow!  _Ow ow ow ow_ —” Chris twists his hand tightly, pulls Stiles’ hair, and tears of agony prick in Stiles’ eyes.

Chris snarls, “Who do you think you’re—” but the words meet a quick death as Scott continues to push in behind him. A filthy, filthy sound leaves Chris’ mouth, but Stiles is too caught up in the fucking unreal pressure on his dick to comment on it. It’s so intense, Scott’s cock pressing against his; it’s intense and hot, too-tight and almost painful, and there’s nothing in the world better than it, better than the way Scott fights his way in, pulsing and squeezing and wet.

Scott’s cock rubs hard against the underside of Stiles’, against the thick vein there, and Stiles spasms, jerks, because it’s just that  _mind-blowing_.

The only coherent thought that comes to Stiles’ mind is, “I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna—” and he bites his lip until he tastes the metallic tang of blood in his efforts to stave it off. Scott’s in the same boat if the frantic little, “ah ah ah,” noises are anything to go by. But, by some miracle, they don’t come before Scott’s finds himself inside as far as he can go, head butting head, his balls resting on Stiles’. His arms wrap around Chris, his nose nudging his shoulder.

They go still. Breathe.

“I think you’re going to have to do all the work, Scott,” Stiles croaks eventually, caught by the way Chris’ brow knits, the way his scruff grazes his face, the way he swears vehemently under his breath. His hands find Chris’ thighs and scratch down the length of them until they tremble under his fingers. Rule three—no unnecessary touching—broken. “I might, uh, slip out otherwise.”

Scott locks eyes with Stiles over Chris’ shoulder, sighs deeply. “Okay, just—okay.” He rubs his cheek across Chris’ skin and, shit, is he  _scenting_  him? “Is this okay? Can I—”

“ _Move_ ,” Chris growls with a ferocity that springs goosebumps to Stiles’ arms and Stiles huffs a laugh. It quickly becomes a shameless moan.

That very, very first drag of Scott’s cock pulling out is the absolute motherfucking, lip-biting, toe-curling  _best_. Scott and Stiles both scrabble and for a grip on Chris just to stop themselves from losing control, a bigger issue for Scott according to the claws that scrape Stiles’ hands. What’s better, though, is the frantic rhythm Scott picks up as he grinds hard into Chris with sharp, slick sounds, pushing quiet grunts from Chris’ throat to across Stiles’ face.

And, you know what? Fuck those rules.

Stiles cups the back of Chris’ head and drags him down for a kiss, Scott’s tight, “Shit, dude,” somewhere off in the distance. Instead of the strangling Stiles expects, though, Chris pushes into it, takes control, and thoroughly rocks Stiles’ mind with a probing tongue and lip tugging and scratchy scruff. Chris kisses him until his lungs cry for air, until Scott’s whimpering and stealing Chris’ lips away to claim himself.

Stiles takes it back. This? This right here?  _This_  is the weirdest part of everything. Chris Argent has pointed guns at Scott more times than anyone cares to count and Stiles certainly hasn’t forgotten that time Chris shoved him against a wall and told him how he murdered his best friend. Somehow, though, none of that seems to matter here, rutting against each other like dogs in heat. Not even Allison, the one thing that really connects Scott and Chris in the first place, seems to matter.

That doesn’t mean Chris doesn’t still intimidate the shit out of Stiles, because of course he does. It’s just different when he’s like this, stretched obscenely and grinding down on their dicks in slow rolls of his hips. There’s still power in him, strength, and Stiles readily gives into it if only Chris clenches around them like that one more time.

This is fucked,  _so_  fucked, but it’s so incredible, too.

“Oh my god,” Scott growls, open-mouthed against Chris’ neck. He pumps in and out wildly, his pace gone jerky, erratic. “Oh shit, I’m close.”

Chris’ arm shoots back and he must dig his nails into something, because Scott freezes, gives a pained gasp. “No you’re not.”

Scott starts to whine. “ _Wha_?”

“Rule five,” Stiles reminds with a laugh, already reaching down for the thick cock that slides wetly across his stomach. The fifth and final rule: Chris comes first.

Chris hums appreciatively when Stiles starts to jerk him and nips across his jaw, sucks somewhere on his throat and Chris Argent is giving Stiles is first fucking hickey, holy shit. Scott’s hips start up again, slower and in more of a grind, and it isn’t long before—“Aw yeah, Chris.”—Chris is spilling over Stiles’ fingers, his stomach in thick spurts and biting into the mark he’s left to muffle his rumbling cry.

Then—Then, he  _clenches_.

“Shit!” Scott squeaks, face scrunched as his thrusts pick up. “Shit, shit, shit! What do we—How do we—”

“Inside,” Chris says breathlessly and Scott does in an instant.

Stiles hisses because he can  _feel_  when Scott comes in a scalding hot surge of release that washes over his cock as well, jerking them out of their hasty rhythm. His fiery howl rattles picture frames and windows and it just brings Stiles that much closer to the finish line himself, his balls drawing in and his cock pulsing, tingling in anticipation. But, it’s not until Scott pulls out, soft and sticky, and Chris spurs back to life to ride him again, hard, that Stiles finally lets go, grunting as he pumps his load into Chris’ ass.

Scott stumbles back a bit while Stiles continues to twitch and spasm through his orgasm; Chris sighs deeply and pulls off just as Stiles’ cock gives a final, weak pulse of spunk. They take a few moments just to sit still, to pant, and some point, Stiles shakes his head and looks around, taking in the musky smell of sex and the gross mess, well, everywhere. Then, he glances at Scott and Chris who stare back with a strange mix of bewilderment and shame.

Without an ounce of remorse, Stiles grins tiredly at them, runs his sticky hand through the mess Chris left on his stomach. “Well,  _shit_ ,” he sighs contentedly.


End file.
